We lie tired 

Bundled up in puffers and scarves 

On the pleather seats of the bus that feels like home. 

You rummage through your red lunchbox, 

Unpacking each item carefully 

at dusk

sun setting on an april day in paris 

I messaged you 

as if I was sending letters

by carrier pigeon 

to an enemy fort 

hidden in the alps 

at first

you were the loud boy on the bus 

with a red lunchbox 

full of day old spaghetti in a dented thermos

and parmesan your dad brought back from italy